


via dolorosa

by LadyCharity



Series: there and back again [5]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019), Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Invasion of Normandy, Near Death Experiences, Tom Blake would have been Tommy's godfather if he survived, Will Schofield is the father of Tommy from Dunkirk, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCharity/pseuds/LadyCharity
Summary: On April 6, 1917, William Schofield comforts a dying Tom Blake on the battlefield.Twenty-seven years later, in another war and on another plane of existence, Tom Blake returns the favour.(In which Tommy Schofield has a guardian angel)
Relationships: Tom Blake & Tommy (Dunkirk), Tom Blake & William Schofield
Series: there and back again [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650028
Comments: 32
Kudos: 95





	via dolorosa

**Author's Note:**

> First off, for anyone who may wonder where this story comes from, please check out my story 'you'd make a mess, a terrible mess out of the war' that is also part of this series! It is a fic centered on Will Schofield and his life after the Great War, and how he names his son after his friend Tom Blake. His son who, coincidentally, will become Tommy from the story/movie of 'Dunkirk' directed by Chris Nolan. It'd probably make this story make more sense! 
> 
> Second off, if you are here because you've already read said fic, I want to first give a huge THANK YOU. I genuinely had no expectation for people to read it, much less enjoy it, and the fact that so many people responded so encouragingly and happily to it blew my mind. Thank you for taking the time to read that fic and investing in my interpretation of Will's family and future! That means so, so much to me.
> 
> I kept telling myself PLEASE. DON'T WRITE A SEQUEL TO 'you'd make a mess, a terrible mess out of the war' FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD. KEEP THE OPEN ENDING AND LET IT END ELEGANTLY. Am I going to regret publishing this? Oh, I hope not.....I really hope not. But I really enjoyed writing this. Kind of wrote it in a wild tizzy of energy so let's hope that the high lasts!! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, everyone. And as a note, historical/medical accuracy? I tried my best, but I'm no expert. Please have mercy on me. This should take place during/after the invasion of Normandy, when the western Allies have returned to France.
> 
> Feel free to find me on tumblr! My username is mykingdomforapen

The first thing that Tommy notices are the poppies. 

It is almost idyllic, the way that the sunlight makes translucent the petals, so that he can see every soft vein and shadow. The breeze makes them sway over his head and around his eyes, and for a moment he thinks that he is in the north bank of the Thames back home, having fallen asleep while his sisters swim. Tommy does nothing but stare at them, and when he reaches a hand to touch them, he finds that his hand is as red as the flowers are. 

He turns his head, but it feels impossibly heavy. He is lying on his back, and there is a sharp, invasive pain on his side. He gingerly puts a hand on his side and feels the bullet holes, one on his waist and the other just above his stomach. His fingers come back wet and warm, and his head spins violently. 

When he tries to move his head to look for help, he sees other bodies strewn around him, cushioned by the dying spring flowers. He does not cry out when he recognises his friends among the dead, because it hasn’t been anything new to him for the past four years, but when he looks into Edmund Peterson’s dead face he remembers the eleven-year-old redhead boy who used to play football with him in Christchurch Meadows. Something in him dies alongside his old friend, and he also has never felt so alive. 

Tommy tries to sit up. His torso is immediately stricken with pain, and he falls back, gasping for breath. He looks down and realises that his exit wound is spilling blood as well, and more blood than he has ever imagined in his body is now spilling out. He curses instinctively, and despite himself he chokes back a laugh, because he suddenly imagines the disappointment in his father’s face if he ever found out that his son’s last words were an unrestrained _fuck_.

“I think he’d be proud,” a voice says. 

Tommy coughs, which causes his torso to strain agonisingly. Someone takes his hand and moves it to his side. 

“Keep your hand here.” The voice is young, lilting and unfamiliar. “Got to keep pressure on it. There you go, that’s it, mate.” 

Tommy’s fingers search blindly for a wad of gauze. It is ripped and grisly at this point, but he presses it against his sides and feels it dampen almost immediately. 

“All right, you hold it still, and I’ll wrap something around you so it’ll keep it in place, yeah?” 

Tommy nods, his eyes still half-lidded. He feels the gauze wrap tightly around him, his stained fingers getting caught underneath. He tries to catch the hand of the person helping him, but he misses each time, and he can hardly make out their features with the sun in his eyes. 

“You’ll be all right,” says his helper. “A clean shot, in and out, like a sewing needle. Your lunch isn’t spilling out, so I think it’s a good sign. We just have to worry about the blood staying in you.” 

Tommy tries to piece together the moments prior to the gunshot wound, bits and pieces of memory falling haphazardly out of place. 

“Oi.” A hand brushes the hair from his face impatiently. “Come on, talk with me. Stay awake. Tell me your name.” 

Tommy hadn’t realised that he is nodding off. He gasps for breath, and tries to focus on the hand on his forehead to hold on.

“Tom,” he says, breathless. “I’m Tom Schofield.” 

“Good,” the soldier says. “How old are you, Tommy? That’s a good lad, you’re all right.”

Tommy tries to answer, but his mind feels muddled, as if his brain is sinking in quicksand and the mud pours into the crevices, filling up his thoughts.

“Twenty-one,” he mumbles. “Twenty--no, twenty-two. I just turned...hadn’t I just turned twenty-two?” 

A hand pats his shoulder reassuringly. 

“Has it already been twenty-two years?” says the soldier. “Damn...That’ll be good enough, mate. Do you know where you are right now?”

Tommy tries to pinpoint where he last heard this voice, but he can hardly remember his own age. 

“Reading?” he says. 

“Give it another go, Tommy. What do you last remember?” 

Rust-coloured beaches, stinging in his ears. Huddling in the bottom of a wet foxhole as bullets fly overhead. Razed villages leaving nothing behind but skeletons of stone. 

“France,” Tommy says. A lump forms in his throat. “I’m back in France.” 

“That’s right,” says his helper. “You've been back in France for a couple of weeks now. You made it out the first time, and I’m going to help you make it out again, all right?” 

Tommy nods. He doesn’t care that he doesn’t believe it, not really. It’s enough that there is someone by his side, telling him that it will be okay. 

“Who are you?” Tommy says. 

“Call me Blake,” says the soldier. 

Tommy forces his eyes open so that he is face-to-face with Blake. He has never seen this other man in his life. He looks about the same age as Tommy, but that is where similarities end. He must be from a different division--his uniform is neater and more form-fitting, and difficult to discern his regiment. Blake smiles encouragingly, and tips his helmet. 

“At your service,” he says. 

“What happened?” Tommy murmurs.

“You don’t remember?” says Blake.

Tommy shakes his head. He remembers his corporal screaming over the rainfall of gunfire, sand and hot metal spitting into their faces. He remembers Adams from Cookham asking him for help, and how he turned away to fetch him the an extra belt of ammunition, and when he turned back he saw that Adams’ face had been blown off. A young German soldier crying for his mother as he lay dying, Peterson urging Tommy _put the son of a bitch out of his misery_ while Tommy tried to help the soldier stuff his insides back through the hole of his stomach. Hungry French children shivering before him as he dug through his sack in search of extra cans of rations. 

A look of worry flashes across Blake’s face, but he grips Tommy’s shoulder tightly.

“No matter,” he says resolutely. “Only way to go is forward, after all. Here--”

As Tommy chokes on his own dry throat and mouth, Blake hands him a water canteen. Tommy’s hands shake, so Blake puts the nozzle to Tommy’s lips and helps him drink. He coughs, which causes him pain. Blake steadies Tommy, putting a firm and assuring hand on his shoulder.

“My platoon,” Tommy says. “I don’t know where they’ve gone--” 

“They’ve gone forward,” Blake says. “Over the hill, towards the village. Your unit was supposed to join them, taking a different route, but--” 

“But we were ambushed,” Tommy says, feeling dizzy. 

He turns back to the dead boy next to him. He does not look peaceful in death. His eyes are still open, and a bullet had shattered his cheekbone. 

“He’s gone, mate,” Blake says. His voice is gentle, but unrelenting. “There’s nothing more you can do for him.”

“His mum,” Tommy rasps for breath. “They’re our neighbours.”

He tries to drag himself towards the dead boy. The eldest Peterson boy, a pilot in the RAF, had already been shot down in the Pacific. He does not know who is left from his childhood anymore. In his mind’s eye, he will not recognise the main street without all three Peterson boys making a ruckus, goading Tommy to join their games. He doesn’t think he will recognise the city anymore at all. 

“You won’t be able to bring him back,” Blake says. “It’s okay. They’ll understand. The flowers will bury him.” 

A lump swells in Tommy’s throat, but there is no time for that. Blake gives Tommy a steady look. He shifts over and carefully tugs Peterson’s identification tag from around his neck. He presses it into Tommy’s clammy, bloody hand. Tommy grips it tight before slipping it into the breast pocket of his uniform, along with all the other dog tags that he promises himself he will bring home.

He tries to climb onto his feet, but his head spins and he falls back to the ground, gasping for air. He sees the full devastation of his unit now, gunned down in the edge of a poppy field, and the loss crushes him back down to the earth. He begins to crawl instead, his arms trembling under his weight. 

“Hold on!” Blake cries. 

“I’ve got to go,” Tommy says. “We need to catch up with the platoon.”

He hauls himself onto his feet, his rifle threatening to drag him to the ground. Blake hastily takes Tommy’s arm and pulls it over his shoulder. He holds Tommy close, his touch gentler than Tommy could have imagined. 

“We need to get you to a medic,” says Blake. “Your platoon isn’t for another three miles, but there’s a medic set up in a barn that you had passed, don’t you remember?”

“They’re expecting me,” Tommy says. “They’ll wonder where we are, wonder why Corporal Wickham hasn’t come. We’ve got to go to them.” 

“You’ll bleed yourself out more that way,” says Blake. “Then what good will you be to them?” 

But he does not force Tommy’s steps. He lets Tommy lean heavily against him as he stumbles through the mud and overturned roots, in search of a road that now lay eerily silent. Tommy tries to turn his head back, to look towards what is left of his unit, but Blake puts a hand on the back of his head to stop him from doing so.

“You’ve got enough on your shoulders to carry, Tommy,” he says. “You won't be able to carry them as well. It'll crush you.” 

Tommy takes in deep breaths, urging himself to stay awake. His head clears for a moment. 

“How did you know?” Tommy says. 

“Know what?” Blake says. 

Tommy takes a moment to gather enough breath to speak. Each step forward threatens to be the last. 

“That I’m called Tommy,” he says.

Blake says nothing at first, before he bursts into laughter.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he says. “You’re Tommy Schofield. What else would you be?” 

Tommy doesn’t think that this answers anything. He knows better than to argue, though. He has three miles to go on his own, and he knows that he would count himself lucky if he could even make it to two in this state. But he has been nothing but lucky for the past five years, lucky enough to be alive for now. If he is meant to be dead, then fate had all the opportunity to snuff him out in Dunkirk. 

“Talk to me, Tommy,” Blake says. “Keep yourself awake. Tell me about your family.”

“I can’t breathe,” Tommy gasps, frightened. 

“Yes, you can,” Blake urges. “You can breathe and you can walk. Tell me about Reading. Remember where you’re going after all this.” 

The thought of home sends such a rush of adrenaline through Tommy’s stomach that it makes his legs shake. A great, terrible yearning buries him deep underneath the grass, until his heart could sprout forth a weeping willow from that soil. 

“I have two sisters,” Tommy says. He tries to focus on the trees that they pass, the bark scarred and shredded by shrapnel. They are giants, taller than the ones that he and Ginnie used to climb in the fields by the river. “Edith and Ginnie. And Mum and Dad--all of them but Edith, they live in Reading. Edith’s been working in London. She’s married and has a child now, I haven't met them yet…”

“Easy, now,” Blake says as Tommy’s knees buckle underneath him. “You’re doing well, mate, really great. You’ve got to keep going. Tell me about your old man.” 

“Papa?” Tommy says. “He runs the pub. He’s a carpenter, but he--he hasn’t got a left hand anymore. He lost it in the war. This watch--that’s his from the war, too.” 

He shows Blake the watch on his wrist, and he is mortified to see the state that it is in. The time is frozen at three o’eight, and he doesn't remember when it had stopped. His blood has soaked up into the leather strap. 

"It looked better when he had it," he says abashedly. 

“It's beautiful,” Blake says. “It just keeps going, that stubborn thing. Does he still write poems?” 

“What?” Tommy says.

“Poems,” Blake says. “Your dad, does he still come up with them off the top of his head? He rattled them off under his breath when he thought no one was listening. I dunno if they were his or he just remembered them, but--”

Tommy shakes his head, flummoxed. His father had always been quiet, kept to himself any thoughts or feelings. He read poetry often, whilst Tommy flitted excitedly through the bookshelves of the library, but If he had ever been inspired to make his own rhymes, he did not share it with his children. 

“He’s never done that,” he says. “I’ve never heard or seen--unless he does it in private.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Blake says. “He’s a clever fellow, you know. But after the war, when all the poets wrote about the dead and grief, he would rather keep quiet.” 

Tommy wonders if the blood loss has addled his mind already. How would this stranger know his father better than he does? He can’t recognise which unit Blake would be a part of--surely not his own, but how else would Blake have found him? Tommy’s unit was going a separate route, in case the enemy would give them trouble--

“But he did read them to you,” Blake says. “When you were a baby. Don’t you remember ‘The Jumblies?’ ‘Owl and the Pussycat?’ He had a surprising fondness of Edward Lear, you know?” 

Tommy doesn’t have the wherewithal to respond. He clings to Blake’s shoulder as every thought of his is dedicated to putting one foot after the other. In the midst of war and fear, he still has enough of him left to feel an ache of wishing he had known that his father used to love reading fantasy, that they have that in common. 

“You know my dad?” he says. 

Blake nods with a beam. 

“I had always wondered why he knew so many children’s rhymes,” Blake says, seemingly unaware of Tommy’s struggle. “I suppose it had to do with his daughters, but I remember this one time, we were waiting around the trenches not knowing what was happening--and at the time, your father was known to be a bit of a stick in the mud to everyone else. They all thought he was not a very good conversationalist, not very fun to talk to, but they didn’t realise that you just need to give him a bit of time to open up, and talk about things he likes, and they were going on about girls they were seeing in France, which he obviously wasn’t interested in because he was so devoted to your mum, and also he _did_ have a sense of humour, people didn’t realise it but he anonymously wrote some of the jokes in the trench magazines--Anyway, this one time in the trench Cheap Street--” 

“Sorry?” Tommy says, still trying to make sense of the first sentence Blake had said. 

Blake shakes Tommy good-naturedly. 

“Come on, Tommy boy, keep up,” he says. “I may talk fast, but it’s hardly a lecture--Careful!” 

Tommy cries out in pain and stumbles out of Blake’s grasp, and just manages to catch himself on all fours. It is the height of summer, but he feels as if the sun has gone down and left frost in his bones. His stomach heaves, but all he can manage to spit out is viscous, dehydrated saliva. Blake hurriedly kneels next to him. He clasps Tommy’s hand between his; they feel comparatively hot. 

“You’ve still got a little more to go, Tommy,” Blake says. “You need to make it.” 

“I know,” Tommy stammers. “It’s gotten cold.” 

“It hasn’t, mate,” Blake says. He squeezes Tommy’s hand. “It’s only in you. But you’re going to make it, all right? Let me try to add more pressure on your wound--” 

“I don’t have time,” Tommy says. “Please, help me get up.” 

His breath hitches, and terrible panic makes his shivering more pronounced. He would be useless the moment he reaches his platoon, but he does not dare to imagine what would happen if he doesn’t make it to them. Who is looking after the younger boys, if he isn’t? Who is taking the left flank to make sure that there aren’t snipers from the bell tower that will take down his fellow soldiers, if he isn’t? 

“You’re still bleeding through,” Blake says. “You can’t get any farther if you’re dead, trust me. You’re never going to make it home if you aren’t clever about it.”

Tommy presses his forehead against the cool earth. Cleverness has nothing to do with it. Last time he made it home is because he happened to run a little more to the left than to the right, because he noticed the light above his head as he nearly drowned, because someone held onto his hand instead of let him go when the boat sped away from the oil spill. He might be dead now either way, and all the hope that is left is to sprint from Marathon to Athens, and have the strength to do nothing else but to tell his fellow soldiers that he is still with them, for just a moment. 

“I met a Blake,” Tommy says suddenly.

Blake pauses, his roll of gauze halfway unrolled. Tommy looks up to him, but his gaze is unsteady, and he has trouble pinning down why Blake looks familiar. 

“Well, of course you have.” Blake says. “It’s a common name.” 

“Right,” Tommy says, unfocused. “My middle name is Blake.” 

Although Tommy can hardly see straight, he swears that Blake smiles widely to himself. 

“Good, strong name,” he says. “For a good, strong lad. There--this will give you a little more time.” 

He ties the gauze tightly and holds his hand out to Tommy to take. He hoists Tommy to his feet; he is not much taller than Tommy, and although he seems to be Tommy's age he talks a lot like his father. 

They walk, and every meter stretches to impossible lengths. As Tommy’s strength wanes, Blake chats more loudly, more jovially, as if to urge energy back into Tommy through his ears. He tells Tommy about his older brother who used to con him into eating all of the rotting cherries in exchange for the perfectly ripe ones when they were children, about his sheepdog that he had trained since she was a pup, about a pensive and pastoral cottage that Tommy can hardly believe exists anymore. 

He reminds Tommy of Ginnie; they are both a challenge to tune out, and both would be proud of it. Exasperated affection rushes through Tommy's heart. 

“Look,” Blake says. “Sco, look.” 

Tommy forces himself to lift his eyes. The horizon is roughly hewn with broken towers and British tanks, smoky with gold and purple from the sun setting behind him. Tommy chokes on his own breath, and he pushes himself to walk faster. 

“Steady, Sco,” says Blake. “They’ll see you coming. They’ve been waiting for you, and a medic will come running to you, but you’ve got to stay steady, all right?” 

Tommy staggers forward. It is simply a battered village that the Allies have taken from the Germans, not home. It is not the finish line or the end of the war. But he forces himself towards it with everything left of him, because it might be his. 

“Just a little further,” Blake says under his breath. “I’m going to bring you home, I swear. You’re still with me, Sco?” 

Tommy nods. He thinks of his father, who tried very hard not to cry at the train station on the last day of Tommy’s last furlough. When he had heard of Tommy’s childhood friends who were shot right behind him on the way to Dunkirk beach, he took Tommy’s hand and squeezed it tight, and after a silent moment said, it doesn’t feel like it at first, but you will go on. Maybe it seems impossible right now, but you can go on, and you will. 

“Dad told me about you,” Tommy says softly.

Blake does not pause. He grips on Tommy’s side tighter, moves faster, as if this mention of William Schofield presses him further to bring Tommy to safety. 

“It took him a while,” Tommy says. “And he cried at first. But he’s brave, and he remembers you every day. You’d be proud, Tom.” 

He understands who Blake is. It could only mean one thing. Blake's eyes gleam with emotion. 

“Of course I am,” he says. “Your dad was my best mate. He saved my brother. I've always been proud of him. I would have liked to have been your godfather, you know. Not that you were even an apple in your parents’ eyes when I was still here, but I would've liked to.” 

Tommy’s vision blurs. Blake sounds far-off, as if their heads are underwater. His heart is working too hard. 

“I would have given your sisters one of Myrtle’s puppies,” Blake says. “And would have climbed trees with you to the very top. I’d teach you how to shake the cherries off their branches in the spring, onto a blanket spread underneath, and how to pick the best ones. Your father thinks he can tell which cherries are the best, but he hasn’t got the foggiest idea. I’d tell you all these stories about Will that would make you howl.” He laughs in spite of himself--it sounds wet. “I could have been your uncle. But I’ll have to wait, instead--Tommy?”

Tommy slumps to the ground. He cannot make it another step, and the bandages around his torso are drenched. He trembles on the ground, impossibly cold. He feels Blake’s hands on him, and waits for Blake to pull him back onto his feet, to push him a little further, you can see the village from here, just a little more--

Instead, Blake sits down next to him. He carefully gathers Tommy into his arms and holds him tight. Tommy feels a tightness work its way up his chest, but he does not cry. 

“You’ve done well, Tommy,” Blake says. He gives Tommy a gentle squeeze. Tommy can hardly raise his head to look at him. “Good lad. You’ve done so well.” 

Blake’s voice catches. Tommy curls his shaking fingers around the front of Blake’s shirt, just to hold on to something for a little longer. 

“My watch,” Tommy chokes out. He feels each wasted breath whistle through his chattering teeth. “Send it back to my mum and dad. Please.” 

“You’re going to go home, Tommy,” says Blake.

He doesn’t say it with anger or urgency. His voice shakes with emotion, but it remains soft and calm, like a deep and steady river that washes over Tommy. 

“Tell them it’ll be okay,” Tommy says. There is a lump in his throat. He knows he will miss his family so much. “Make sure they understand--especially Papa. He will need all the help he can.” 

“You’re going to go home, Tommy.” 

Tommy cannot help but smile in spite of himself, as if he knows more than the dead. He can't feel anything anymore, just the iron-heavy exhaustion in his being. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For being with me. I didn’t want to be alone.”

“You listen to me, Thomas Schofield,” Blake says. There are tears running down his round cheeks, but they are not in desperation or despair. He weeps in waiting, in anticipation of a trusted miracle while he trembles in Gethsemane, while he holds his friend’s dying son. “You’re going to go home. You’re going to see your sisters and hug them until you lift them off their feet. You’ll kiss your mum and tell her that you're safe, you’ll wipe the tears from your dad’s face and make him believe in miracles again. You’re going to go back to Reading, to your family’s flat above the pub, and you will get to sleep in your own bed for days. You’ll stretch out in the meadows by the River Thames and look up into the stars and listen to all the stories that you haven’t heard yet. You’re going to live, Tommy. I couldn’t be there with you while you grow up. But I’m here now, and I’m going to help you live.” 

A sob breaks out of Tommy as his heart bursts with a longing to go home. Blake’s hands are warm around him, and Tommy swears he can feel his heartbeat against Blake's chest on which he rests his head. It should be impossible, but instead it reminds him of his father. 

“Are you real?” Tommy says. 

“Yes,” Blake says. 

“Not just in my head?” 

“I am in your head, mate. But your head isn’t your own.”

Tommy fights to breathe. When he speaks, he cannot raise his voice. His words are only a thin exhale.

“Pray for me?” he says. 

Blake draws Tommy closer to his chest. 

“All right,” he says. 

His would-be godfather holds tight onto him and prays, echoing the prayers that across the English channel, Tommy’s mother and sister would whisper before the candles at the Church of St Laurence. The sing-song words are soft and protective in which Tommy would bury his face and wrap around him, well-worn and well-loved. It is his blanket, or his shroud. 

“Tommy,” Blake says suddenly. “People are coming.” 

Tommy can hardly open his eyes. There are figures moving in the backdrop of dusk. Blake raises a hand and waves wildly to catch their attention.

“Come on, Tommy!” Blake says. “Raise your hand, as high as you can. They’ll see you. There you go, that’s my boy!”

Tommy raises a weak hand. One of the figures notices him and Blake--or is it just his own hand, bloodied and trembling in the distance? They begin to run towards his direction--he can just make out that one has a red cross on their armband. 

“They’ll help you, Tommy, you’ve just got to hold on, all right?” says Blake. “You’re going to go home. Do you understand?” 

Tommy gasps for air, as if he has only moments left before he will drown. He reaches out to the medics running towards him, but he cannot keep his arm up for long.

“I said, do you understand, Sco?” 

“Yes,” Tommy says with a wavering voice.

“Say it. You’re going to make it home.” 

Tommy sucks in a deep breath.

“I’m going to make it home,” he says. 

Blake kisses Tommy’s head. It fills Tommy with a missing for someone he doesn’t know yet. 

“Take care of your dad for me. He’s done more for me than I ever asked,” Blake says. “Rest, Sco. I’ll be with you until you wake again.” 

One of the medics is shouting something-- _hemorrhage, hurry, we’ve got to get him under cover_ \--but Tommy only hears Blake. His hand falls back to his chest, his strength spent, and as the medics pull him away to a stretcher, he gives Blake one last smile before closing his eyes.


End file.
